I didn't eat pigeons, but I did eat biscuits. Two of them. With jam my husband made from strawberries we picked last May. And they were delicious.
I was doing this "thing" called the Whole30. One of those detox/minimalist diets that are all the rage now. Speaking of rage...well, that's a strong term for what I was feeling. I was really just sick of it. I'm tired of the messages from everywhere that we aren't good enough just the way we are. That we always have to be a little thinner, or more enlightened, or have longer, stronger hair. Run faster, run farther,more more more moremoremoremore. My neighbor, who is a size two for fuck's sake, still thinks she's fat.
Since when is my life all about struggle and dissatisfaction every day? Oh, right. Only everyday. But then two things happened yesterday. One was something Belle commented on the post I wrote yesterday, "you're not broken. you don't need to be fixed." And two: I realized that everything is available. And that I have some common sense. And all that stuff they say about choices is true.
I thought about the biscuit I've wanted for weeks now. I compared it to wanting a glass if wine. I thought about how choosing not to have the wine makes my life easier. Less complicated. I thought about how, if I had that one glass of wine I would probably have seven or eight. How it would wreck my medium stable grasp on sobriety. How a biscuit would probably just be a biscuit.
It's hard to find the balance of making sure the booze carries the weight it needs to (fucking soul destroyer) and not giving it too much power (meh, no thanks). That's true then for all these decisions, isn't it? Biscuit or no biscuit, run three miles or don't, yell or take a breath, read or take a nap, rob a bank or go to work, jeans or yoga pants.
The choice about sobriety was made for me a long time ago- I must be it. Or I am a mess. So it's not really a choice any more, it's decided. The answer is always no.
But these other choices- Choices Light- I'd like to take these as they come. And I'd like to stop worrying about what everyone else thinks I should do or be, and start deciding that for myself.
I went upstairs yesterday morning with the kids and shook my husband awake. Asked him to go get biscuits. Gave up twenty-six days of hard choices gracefully. It was time.